


hiraeth

by caryophyllaceae (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cheating, Infidelity, M/M, might be continued??, the sads :((((, written as a gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/caryophyllaceae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(n) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> hi, darling! i decided to write you something because you're such a sweetheart and because i inspire you so much, so here's a cheaty-type-thing written by yours truly! i hope that you'll enjoy it, because i wrote it especially for you for being such a sweetie. i'm so glad i inspire you as much as i do, and i couldn't be more overjoyed to have the title of your favorite johndave writer! <3

_you're writing lines about me—romantic poetry_

_your girl's got red in her cheeks, 'cause we're something she can't see_

_and i try to refrain, but you're stuck in my brain_

_and all i do is cry and complain, because second's not the same._

 

* * *

 

You stare blankly at yourself in the dirty mirror in the cheap motel room bathroom and brush your fingertips softly over the purple bruises on your neck, wonder how long it’ll take them to heal this time and if he’ll just make new ones before they can fade. You try to figure out where you went wrong and how this happened as you wriggle your toes against the matted carpet under your feet that you think may have bloodstains on them, try to figure out how he became your everything and you became his nothing. “You comin’ back to bed, or what?” You hear from the doorway, and you jump so high that you’re sure your feet lifted from the ground.

When you turn to look and see who it is despite the fact that you _know_ because you’ve heard his voice a million times before, from moans to breaths to pants and you could spot him by voice alone from a million miles away or from outside of planet earth, he smiles at you. It isn’t his real smile. It’s a smirk, more than anything—but you’ve seen his real smile before, and you wish he’d show you it more but you guess that’s reserved for his wife, who he actually loves. You’re just a booty call and you know it, but you just can’t let him go. “Yeah,” you say thickly, and your voice sounds like hell. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What’s gotten into ya’ lately, kid?” He asks, and you go rigid at the fact that he called you _kid_ because it’s another reminder that he’s twenty-five and married with a kid on the way and you’re still a kid yourself, seventeen and dumber than you wish to admit. You don’t grant him a response, you only push back him and slip underneath the filthy covers of the cheap bed and listen to the sound of the springs creak beneath you. He climbs into bed behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulls you to his chest, and it almost makes you feel like you are his one and only. But you aren’t, you aren’t and you just can’t seem to forget it.

“Nothing’s gotten into me,” you finally respond. The old analog clock on the bedside table ticks slowly, a backdrop to your sorrow, and the moon shines through the wide open window because the place is in debt and they haven’t got enough money for blinds. “I’m fine.”

He snorts a laugh. “Yeah, right. Is that why you keep hidin’ in the bathroom for two hours after we have sex, John?”

You breathe slow, deep. His phone vibrates on the table and you wish he’d ignore it, but you know he won’t, and none to your surprise he reaches over you and picks it up. You know that it’s _her_ , that she’s going to ask where he is and when he’s coming home. You can hear her on the other end of the line, hear her whine his voice— _Daaaave_ —and you think that if you were a dog all of the hairs on your backbone would be standing and you’d be growling. “No, babe, I would never cheat on you,” he says, convinces her with his slow voice and his Texan accent and you hate that you fall for it every time, just like his wife does. He’s got to feel how tense you’ve gone in his arms, but he does nothing about it. “Just out with the boys. Be back in the morning, yeah?”

She bitches at him for another five minutes before he finally gets to hang up, and when he does he tosses his phone carelessly to the ground and you wish you could be that casual about things, casual enough to throw a seven-hundred-dollar IPhone on the ground without even worrying about what may happen to it. “I hate you,” you tell him pointedly, ignoring the growing wet patch by your head from the tears dripping steadily down your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose and onto the disgusting pillow underneath you. “I hate you so, so much.”

But you know Dave is already asleep, and it’s no use.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, you’re sure that Dave likes you more than his wife. He’s told you about her before—her name is Vriska Serket, she’s got long blonde hair and blue eyes and they’ve been together since middle school. He’s also told you that he used to write raps for her, about her, but that he hasn’t done so in years. On the other hand, he’s written you a few; some of them bordered on poetry, but you didn’t tell him because he was insistent on the fact that he was not a poet, he was a rap God and needed to be treated as such.

The other thing is, you love him. He has no idea. You haven’t told him, and you aren’t sure that you’ll ever be able to. When he pushes you down against the mattress of your cheap motel of the night and bites that sensitive spot between your ear and shoulder, you think that maybe, just maybe, he may love you too. But he’d never admit it. Dave Strider is a human manufactured of denial and demon’s tears, and you aren’t sure what to do with that. “You smoke, kid?” He asks one night while you’re sitting on the roof of his apartment, the only place Vriska wouldn’t look for him, and even if she did he’d make up the excuse that he’s tutoring you.

You tell him that you do even though you’ve never had a cigarette in your life, and so he hands you one of his cigarettes and lights it for you. You take a shaky inhale and immediately start coughing because the smoke fills your lungs like poison, and Dave snorts a laugh, taking a—hit?— from his cigarette. “Yeah. You don’t smoke.”

You’re sure that you’re blushing, because you’ve always gotten flustered easily and it’s always been something you hated. You hand the cigarette back over to him and he puts it out, flicks it off the roof with a steady hand and you watch it fall until you can’t see it anymore. This would be a good time to tell him you love him, you think. But when you look at him—at the way his perfect blonde hair lands in his eyes and the way his red eyes glow beneath his shades, you decide that that’s something a lover would do, and you are merely a booty call.

Three weeks after the night on the roof, Dave takes you out for dinner. It’s the first time he’s ever done something like that, and you can’t help but stare at him over your plate of spaghetti, perhaps the best spaghetti you’ve ever had. Then again, your dad isn’t a rich man, though he is an honest one, so you don’t think you’ve ever eaten at a place as fancy as the one you’re at currently. You have a turtleneck on because if you were wearing any other kind of shirt, the marks Dave left on you would be visible and you’d prefer they wouldn’t. “Why did you take me out for dinner?” You ask, picking at your food. You aren’t very hungry, you decide.

“‘Cause I thought it would be a nice thing to do?” He responds, but it sounds more like a question than anything, like he isn’t sure his answer is the right thing to say. You stare at him point-blank, twirl your spaghetti around your fork and try to pretend like you aren’t enamored with him, on the edge of your seat about the next thing he may say to you. “Because you deserve it. A nice dinner, I mean. You’re a good kid.”

You blink tears out of your eyes and stand, dropping your fork on the table with a loud _clang._ Dave looks up at you with an eyebrow raised—you guess he must be confused. “I’m tired of you calling me _kid_ ,” you say, and you know that your voice is a bit loud so you’ll make sure that the next thing you say is loud enough for the entire place to hear. Your reputation at school is already low enough that your reputation around a few strangers won’t even put a budge in how people look at you. “You’ve fucked me more than once and you _know_ that I’m not a “kid,” so cut the shit already. Seriously, just, I—” you’re losing it, losing yourself, losing your composure. “Fuck you.”

And really, because you’ve got nothing left to lose, you grab a fistful of spaghetti and throw it right in one Dave Strider’s face. You watch it smudge his glasses and you watch the tomato sauce drip slowly down his cheek, and you feel a dull sense of triumph. You’ve never stood up to your demons before—you’ve always hidden them from other people, and this one, this one; you’ve faced this one yourself, taken it down. You grab your jacket and run out of the restaurant, not once looking back.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next week, Dave calls you exactly twenty times. Your cell fifteen, and your home phone five. You know if you answer him, he’ll just sweet talk you and you’ll be letting him fuck you over again in no time, but this time, you won’t stand for it. You will not let yourself crumble to a million pieces over someone as ridiculous, as asshole-ish, as Dave Strider. You absolutely refuse to fall into his trap like his wife has. The twenty-first time he calls you, it is on your home phone, and you’re making your father dinner in the kitchen so you can’t make it to the phone in time to stop the message, so you’re forced to listen to it.

_John, I—fuck, okay, I just left my wife for you. I love you. Give me another chance, fuck—I, just—I won’t be such a fucker, I swear. I won’t be such an asshole. Please, just give me a second chance. I’ll prove to you that I love you. That you weren’t just some booty call. Why do you think I took you out for dinner? You’re—you’re more, John. To me. I love you._

Your heart is wilting like a flower in your chest and your lungs are collapsing, and with the heavy weight of gravity bearing on you, you unplug the phone and stuff it underneath the sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics used are from halsey - is there somewhere?
> 
> it's a rad song, check it out.
> 
> sorry if this sucked, bluh. i tried my best.
> 
> i might continue this? who knows. i left it open in case i want to or in case anyone else requests i do.


End file.
